Could You
by Whas'up
Summary: Robin owns the flower shop, the only flower shop that's open before ten in a fifteen mile radius. Regina Mills is the tattoo artist that works next door, he's sees her nearly everyday, but Sunday and Monday, when she goes to work. He might never have talked to her, if she hadn't saved his sons life.
1. Chapter 1

Robin stands before the windows, curtains pulled back, three windows all in a row before him, a draft comes from the left most window, has a soft cool breeze blowing across his bare chest, he shivers even with the warm rays of sunrise washing him in light. He heaves a huge sigh, sipping from his steaming mug of coffee; he's added a bit too much sugar he thinks, grimacing as he drinks. Robin watches the sunrise every morning, watches the sun climb over the little ridge of hills far off in the distance, watches golden rays dancing in the fog that is dense over the park right across the street, watches a new day creep over the rather shabby roofs of his neighbors, Robin watches the pink rays of dawn transform the sky into a masterpiece every morning, here at these windows, as he did with Marian, before she- she-

Robin's jaw tenses, he rubs a hand through his hair, he's not looked in a mirror yet but he knows, can feel, that his hair is a riot, a mess, matted on one side and at the back. He smooths it out with his fingers, eyes closed, feeling the warmth of the new day on his skin. He sucks in a huge breath of air, and lets it out through his nose, another huge breath in, another slow exhale.

His home is quiet now, in the early morning hours, Roland fast asleep in his racecar bed, the fridge doesn't even make that awful thrumming clunking noise at this early hour, as if the world has paused, as if the world is waiting. Robin takes another sip of his coffee, liquid so hot as to burn his tongue, but he relishes the heat, the pain, smacks his lips before he lands his mug on the windowsill, it lands with a quiet plunk.

Robin has to wake Roland soon if he has any intention of getting the boy ready on time for preschool, Robin is still adjusting to getting the boy to daycare on time, and the boy too, is adjusting, to the notion that Roland has somewhere to be during the day. He used to stay in the shop with Robin and Marian, rolling out of bed only to stumble downstairs and sleep in the office at the back of the shop for a couple more hours before waking. Robin definitely has to wake Roland up soon, the boy won't like it, never does, always begging to sleep just a little more, his curls matted and wild about his sleep addled face. Roland is small enough still for Robin to pluck from the bed, when the boy asks for a little while longer Robin picks him up, tickling him and tickling him, until the lad squeals, his face red from laughter, 'I'm up, Papa! I'm up!'

Robin rubs at his eyes, they are still heavy from sleep, he reaches for his coffee once more, rising it up, sipping from it as he turns away from the sunrise, he pads softly over to the telly and brings the screen to life. He flips through the channels, finds the local news, the first voice he has heard all day is Tiffany giving him the weather, Robin mutes the television. He watches words form on the girl's mouth, watching without the sound, and thinks of how Marian's voice used to be the first he heard every morning.

A particularly loud car passes out front, brakes squealing at the lights; Robin shakes his head and places both his too sweet coffee and the remote down. It's time to wake up the grumpy goose named Roland Locksley.

* * *

><p>They arrive late to the preschool, nearly ten minutes late, Mary-Margaret, Roland's favorite teacher, is there by the door and waiting with a disappointed frown and caring eyes as Robin parks his Jeep in the drop off zone, Robin does not look at her fully until he has Roland unclipped from his booster seat.<p>

"Hello, Roland," she chirps, bending down to hug Roland as he makes a mad dash to the door.

"Did I miss Good Morning Sun?" Roland asks, dangerously close to being upset, he'd panicked in the car, speaking unintelligibly to Robin about how he was going to miss Song Time.

Mary-Margaret nods, "I'm sorry, buddy, you'll just have to sing extra hard tomorrow, okay?"

Roland nods, tears building in his little eyes; the sense that Robin is a failure buries itself in Robin's chest, right beside his heart. Robin turns Roland by a hand on his thin little shoulder, Robin kneels down, hugs the boy, "I love you, my boy," Robin says, for some inscrutable reason he feels close to crying himself, that ache beside his heart stabs and stabs as Roland sniffs and rubs his snot on Robin's shoulder.

Roland mumbles out an 'I love you' back, before he steps away, forlorn and stomping, each step has his heels flashing, his light up sneakers illuminating him on his path into the building.

Mary-Margaret watches him go down the hall before turning to Robin, her arms now crossed, "Mr. Locksley," she begins, and Robin has told her twice already that he prefers Robin, but it's always 'Mr. Locksley' when he's in trouble.

"Mrs. Nolan," Robin says back, head tipped forward, respectful to her, though he doesn't appreciate in the least the earful she's going to give him.

But she does nothing of the sort, merely sighs, that awful disappointed sigh, her brows pinch at the center, she almost looks pleading, "Song Time is Roland's favorite," she tells him.

"He'll be on time tomorrow," Robin promises, "I'm truly very sorry."

She smiles at him, before bidding him a good day and turning back into the glorified daycare center, Robin stands there, facing the closed door decorated with the handprints of tiny children in multicolored paint for a long moment, he swallows before turning away.

* * *

><p>"Good morning, Granny," Robin says, the little bells attached to the flower shop door jangling. He's late. But it's his shop really so what is there to say real-<p>

"You're late," she growls, the old woman he's only hired _two weeks_ ago admonishes him, looking at him from over the tops of her glasses, when she does that she looks _very_ much like that one horribly strict schoolmarm Robin still has nightmares about. Robin rubs at the knuckles of his right hand as he shuffles into the shop, as if to sooth the sting of punishment doled out decades ago.

"Roland's teacher needed me for a moment," Robin defends, tugging off his coat and stowing it in the cubby under the register right next to Granny's purse and jacket. Granny's holding a pair of shears, working at the counter, trimming stems over a towel, "Any business?" Robin asks her.

The old woman nods, focusing once more on her task, snip go the shears, "A few businessmen who forgot their anniversaries," she answers, she smirks, head still tilted down, snip go the shears, "I love the panic in their eyes," Granny says darkly, and for someone who insists on being called _Granny_, going so far as to put it on her resume, she's quite a bit more blood thirsty then your regular grandmother.

Robin laughs a throaty chuckle, "Be kind," he urges, it's quarter till nine now, the shop's been open since eight, Robin's shop is the only flower shop that opens before ten in a ten mile radius, he makes good money off those fools that need something quick and early.

The bells jangle, both Robin and Granny move their eyes to the door, "Hey," a man sticks his head in, doesn't even come in fully, just letting all the heat Robin pays for out into the morning, "You guys know what time the tattoo place opens?"

"No, mate, I'm sorry," Robin says, nearly gritting his teeth, it's a lie; he knows the redhead comes and unlocks the door at eleven every day but Sunday and Monday. But Robin deals with at least one person daily asking about the tattoo place next door, honestly, the tattoo place, _Apple Tree_ it's called, they can't post their hours like normal people do?

The man frowns, still holding the door open, "alright," he shrugs, looks about and seems to become aware suddenly of all the flowers around him, he turns away, "thanks," is heard right before the door slams shut, not before a particularly blustery blast of wind finds its way inside.

Granny tsks her tongue, placing the shears down, "What kind of ink for him, do you think?"

Robin's frustration, and god, he knows it's petty, but can't they buy a sign, they'd opened eight months ago and for eight months Robin has ha- Robin takes a deep breath, head tilted back as his eyes close, he breathes out, and his ire it melts away with a shake of his head, he runs his fingers over the scruff on his chin, down to his throat, "He looks like the type to have 'wanker' written across his neck," alright, maybe not all his ire.

Granny cackles, an explosion of mirth, her whole body shakes with the force of it, she throws the end clipping of a stem at him, it leaves a spot of wetness on his shirt, "Be _kind_," she mimics at him, mouth twisted quite unattractively, eyes narrowed behind her glasses.

Robin smiles at her, "Be kind to _our_ customers," Robin responds.

He's got a couple coming in to talk about floral arrangements for their wedding in about an hour; he turns and checks the clock on the wall above him. "I'll be out back; can you show the love birds in when they get here?"

Granny rolls her eyes, knows immediately who he is speaking of, the sickly sweet couple who seem like really wonderful people, they just happen to be terribly ornery about their floral arrangements, "You got it, " she says, picking up her shears once more.

* * *

><p>There's a car parking across the street, just on time, like every other day but Sunday and Monday. He watches the car maneuver between his own Jeep and a red truck, a little car, green, a more emerald then Robin's cameo Jeep, expensive looking, sleek, and clean, his Jeep looks like a dusty wreck in comparison, the parallel parking job is done flawlessly.<p>

Out the redhead steps, busty and not at all afraid to show it, she's sinful looking for more reasons beside her curves. She looks right, left, right, before stepping away from her car and into the street that has exactly zero traffic but for one lone biker in spandex well down the road.

Her hair bounces with her steps, long, red, full hair, other parts of her bounce as well, but Robin looks away, looks back down to the bouquet he's fiddling with at the front window, not enticed in the least, though she is certainly beautiful. The redhead doesn't tempt him, she looks closed off, cold, Robin has not seen her smile in the entire eight months she's been opening the tattoo parlor, she must see him through his window as easily as he sees her, but they are strangers still that have not even made eye contact.

She unlocks the tattoo parlor door, an old creaky thing, hard wood and heavy, she has to use her entire body to open it, walks inside and only moments later the music starts, the music they play in there so loud that Robin can nearly feel the beat in his spine an entire building and tiny alley away.

The staff of the tattoo place arrive in drifts and drabs, Robin is always in _his_ shop, is able to watch each employee arrive, he does it in the way one might absentmindedly listen to the radio, and has done so for eight months. First after the redhead is the man, brown hair and a sneer on his face, as if everything in the world makes him unhappy, sunglasses on no matter how overcast the day, always with a large styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand. Across the man's neck, spanning right across his throat, is a tattoo of a rabbit mid leap, the man always nods to Robin through the window, and Robin nods in return. About an hour after him the blonde woman, lovely and confident, she hops off the bus at the corner with ear buds in, she doesn't look up the entire way from the bus stop to the Apple Tree, her red leather coat, no matter how cold or hot it is, always the red leather coat, wrapped around her frame.

And last, sometimes not at all, is the dark haired woman with her arms entirely inked. She'd worn short sleeved shirts and sleeveless dresses in the summer when the tattoo place opened, her arms bare, the ink crawling up her arms easy to see, on her right it goes up into her shoulder, and down her back. Robin's hands still, the wreath he is meant to be hanging in the front window held in the air before him as he looks at the dark haired woman.

She's wearing a coat today, her sleeves hidden, all her skin but her face hidden, the riot of color that Robin knows is there is covered, Robin has never been close enough to distinguish the pattern or design those tattoos depict, has only been able to see the royal purple and deep red splashed over both arms, deep verdant greens and bright orange, the rich colors clear even from far away, even through his front window. The black coat is cinched tightly around her waist; black hair shining brightly in the sun, a phone held to her ear and she is frowning, scowling, her brows drawn together, her lip curled in a twitching snarl, through the single pane of glass in his window Robin can hear her just as she stops before the old wooden door of the Apple Tree, "Leo, if you don't bring him back tonight I will call the police and have you arrested for kidnapping, do you hear me? You have no right to him at all, I have sole cus-"

"Robin," Granny calls from the register, mouth pursed in concentration and looking down at their schedule.

Robin hooks the wreath and turns away from the window, licking his lips and shaking his head, "What do you need, Granny?" He walks towards the old woman and does not wait to see the woman end her phone call and use here entire short little body to haul open the creaky wooden door.

Not minutes after the dark haired woman enters the tattoo place though, the music is turned down, just like every other day. Granny sighs, "Thank god for that woman," she rubs at the bridge of her nose, "Really Robin, we should file a noise complaint."

Robin smiles, going back to hanging his wreaths, "That seems a slight overreaction," he says.

"It'd be an excuse for you to talk to her at any rate," Granny grumbles, and when he turns to look at Granny she's pursed her lips at him, a knowing look in her eyes.

"Pardon?" Robin bites, though he heard her fine, she shakes her head.

"Nothing," she says with raised eyebrows that clearly say a lot more than nothing.

* * *

><p>Roland talks and talks and talks the entire way back to the shop, back home, his tears from the morning nowhere in sight, he's happily buckled into his booster, chomping at a cheese stick and kicking his feet against the back of the passenger seat.<p>

He stops mid-sentence to gasp, looking out the window at the play structure in the park as Robin maneuvers into a space, "Papa, Maria is in the park! Can I play with her? Please, please?"

Robin cuts the engine, twists to look out his son's window and sure enough his little friend is in the park, at the swings with her mother pushing her softly. Robin chuckles, unbuckles himself before opening his door and rounding the Jeep and doing the same for Roland.

"Lola!" Robin calls as he's turning his head to look back into the park, lifting Roland under the armpits and landing him safe on the sidewalk as he does, Maria and her mother both look up, waving, "Can the boy play with you in a bit?"

Lola nods, and Maria jumps from the swings, bouncing excitedly, her pigtails whipping wildly as she runs to the slide.

"You have to say hello to Granny first," Robin looks down to Roland, holding the boys hand as they cross the street to the flower shop.

The bells jangle, and Roland's sweet high voice is instant, "HI GRANNY," he belts out, not caring at all about the customer at the counter that he talks over. Roland looks up at Robin, imploring eyes, and Robin was always a sucker for those puppy eyes.

"Alright, now," Robin laughs, shaking his head at his boy's antics, Robin bends down and straightens out Roland's hoodie, zipping the zip closer to his chin, before pulling the Spiderman backpack from Roland's back, "finish your snack," Robin taps the cheese stick, and chuckles as Roland shoves the rest of it into his mouth.

"Can I go, Papa?" Roland asks around the cheese, holding the wrapper out to Robin, still with those puppy eyes. Robin takes the trash from the boy, fondly rubbing a hand at the top of Roland's curls as he straightens.

"Yes, be careful," Roland's out the door before Robin is even done speaking, leaving Robin chuckling and heading towards the back office.

* * *

><p>"Am I gonna miss Song Time?" Roland asks, desperate, eyes huge.<p>

Robin looks at the clock on the dash, looks in the rearview to see Roland for one second as he answers, "No, my boy, don't worry."

Roland nods, his hands clenching at the toy dinosaur he insisted he needed to bring with him today. "Are you sure? Papa, I'm not gonna miss it?"

They slow to a half at a red light, Robin turns in his seat, smiling at Roland reassuringly, "You're not going to miss Song Time, Roland, I promise."

Roland nods again, looking out the window at the world, that toy triceratops held tightly in his hands.

They arrive at the preschool with minutes to spare, the last to show up, but they are on time. Roland kisses Robin on the cheek, an exaggerated 'mmwwuh' leaving his tiny mouth before he's jogging to the hook with his name written above it, hanging up his bag and his little jacket. His dimples are deep as he jogs to his little friends, humming excitedly, practically skipping to his classmates.

Mary-Margaret waves and smiles, occupied with another parent. Robin does not wait for her to come to him.

* * *

><p>The day passes much the same as any other, bouquets' sold, floral arrangements for another wedding finalized, wreathes for a funeral made, the day passes.<p>

The dark haired women with the colorful sleeves doesn't go to the tattoo parlor that day, Robin doesn't notice that he notices, until Granny throws a pencil at him as he's staring out the window. Robin clears his throat, ignores the look that Granny is throwing him.

Robin and Granny grit their teeth through the muffled music that drifts through the windows and wall.

* * *

><p>"Hello, Marian," Robin says, placing the roses down upon the grass at the base of her headstone.<p>

The wind blows cold over the graveyard, Robin shivers, hands retreating to his pockets, his eyes dig and dig, rereading her name, _Marian Locksley_, her epitaph, _The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want_.

Robin bites his bottom lip, turns away from the granite slab, his throat bobs, he used to speak to her grave, to her headstone, a year ago, right after she passed, he would come and sit for hours and speak about his day, as if they were sitting down to dinner. He doesn't do that anymore, doesn't share his days with her as if she were still alive, because that was not healthy; he'd been told that was not healthy.

He visits his wife every Friday, Friday was their date day, a picnic alone at lunch, or a concert in town in the night, Friday was always their day to share and love and remember the fun they could have with each other. Robin visits her every Friday, and leaves a bouquet of roses, her favorite was always red, deep, dark red, nearly purple, he brings a dozen every Friday. They get stolen, he is sure, he never sees any evidence of them being there at all when he comes with a new bouquet.

"Roland's doing well," Robin nearly whispers, looking about, as if to find Archie with his sympathetic frown, the therapist there to reprimand him, to remind him it's not healthy to pretend Marian can speak back to him. Robin lets out a quiet breath, looking once more to her name, written in cursive, _Marian Locksley_. "I'll bring him to see you next time, would you like that?" Robin clears his throat, taking a step back, she can't answer, he knows that, he shakes his head and stares and stares, in silence, the graveyard empty but for him.

* * *

><p>The morning after that Roland is again late, Robin opens the door and nearly trips as Roland dashes past his legs, they open the door in the middle of Song Time. Roland strips his backpack off himself and lets it drop to the carpet without a look back, he jumps in and begins to sings the last half of the song with the other children. Robin bends and grabs the backpack, he puts it and Roland's lunchbox on the little boy's labeled hook on the wall and steadfastly refuses to look at the disappointment Mary-Margaret will have in her huge eyes.<p>

He'll try better tomorrow, Robin promises in his own head, promises Roland. Promises Marian.

* * *

><p>"Can I play with Maria in the park?" Roland asks, tugging at Robin's hand, he'd been coloring in the office, but now he's at Robin's side, looking up at him pleadingly.<p>

Robin turns away from the customer that stands before the counter, he smiles down at Roland and tips his head back to the office, "Grab you jacket," Robin says, and that ache beside his heart throbs as Roland smiles, dimples and teeth and joy, the boy turns and runs back into the office.

"How old is he?" the customer asks, a man looking for flowers a very exact shade of pink.

"Four," Robin says, crouching to zip the jacket Roland has thrown on, Robin tips Roland's chin up, "Be careful, when Maria and her Mommy are done playing you come back here."

Roland nods, he's practically vibrating, biting his lips he is so excited about spending time with his little friend, Robin is so happy that his boy can be so happy.

He swats Roland on the bum and shoos him off, "Go on, boy."

"Thank you, Papa!" he calls, using all his weight to pull the door open, he was across the store in seconds, the bells jangle and jangle.

"How about thi-" Robin is gesturing to a display, hoping this will be the elusive pink this man needs, when the sound of screeching tires fills the air. The screech of tires, a huge crash, metal against metal and then there is screaming, urgent hollering after a high pitched cry filled with awful pain. Robin stops, not even breathing, eyes widening, he can see through the lettering on his front windows, a red SUV pressed shoulder to shoulder against a parked van on the other side of the street. No air is making it into his lungs, Roland, Robin thinks, taking a lurching step around the counter, the man is talking, it's like a buzz in Robin's ear, Roland, who'd left the flower shop seconds ago, seconds, to go play with his friend across the street at the park.

"No," Robin gasps, and things speed back up, too fast. He pelts across the shop, flings the door back.

"Roland!" he screams, torn from his lungs, desperate and terrible, it was only seconds ago, seconds, and Roland, all Robin has left, no, oh god, Robin can't breathe.

Robin runs into the road, his heart thudding in his chest painfully as he searches for a dark head of curls, looks for a little body thrown and bloodied and broken laying upon the ground, Roland no, god, Robin pushes a man out of the way, no time even for an apology.

Roland crashes into Robin's legs.

A great whooping breath of relief gushes into Robin's mouth before a wail barks out, he picks Roland up under the armpits, tears he had not noticed falling freely down his face, Robin flings the crying boy up into his arms, "Roland, oh god, Roland," Robin cries, crushing the boy to him.

The boy is sobbing.

Robin's heart is still pounding, holding Roland safe against his chest, Robin looks about the scene. Looks at the SUV, looks as people gather, and he hears a voice, just a pedestrian, a women with shopping bags in her hands, "She saved that little boy," she's saying to someone just walking up.

Robin turns to look at the SUV, glass crunching under his boots as he walks closer, Roland still sobbing in his arms.

"Is she alri-"

"-id you see, it hit her after sh-"

"-under there, oh my god, call an ambu-"

There is a woman under the SUV, one hand and half her forearm sticking out of it, a tattooed arm, deep purples and verdant green, colors under the blood, there is blood there on her thin wrist, the rest of her is hidden under the large car, hidden by metal. Robin holds his sobbing son close to him, crushing the boy to his chest as Roland heaves desperate breaths against Robin's neck.

The _woman_, Robin blinks, looking at that bloodstained wrist, he takes another step closer, and sees the deep red ink in her arm, as if from far away, like this is a dream, a nightmare, Roland still held to his chest, he notices that they are roses, deep red roses colored and drawn into her skin.

Robin hears sirens, streets away, the sirens are no match for the shrill cry that comes from the redhead, Robin turns to look at her, she stands frozen at the door of the Apple Tree, blue eyes impossibly wide, emotions Robin had never imagined on her pinched face playing over her features, anguish, panic, awful and desperate fear, "Regina!" the redhead screams, moving forward, lurching, she bats away the arm the blonde behind her tries to hold her back with. The redhead rushes past Robin, broken glass crunching under her shoes, it must bite into her knees as she falls down on them, she's down on her belly then, sliding half under the car, "Regina, sis, little sis! Regina!"

"Hey, be careful," the blonde follows after, kneels next to the redhead and curves her spine to look under the SUV. The blonde's entire demeanor changes in an instant as she peers under the SUV, her voice soothing, "Hey, it's gonna be okay, okay? You're doing so great, just stay calm, hey, talk to me, hey-" she reaches out and clasps the limp hand lying on the concrete.

The woman is awake under there, under all the metal, Robin falls to his knees too, the broken glass biting through his jeans, Roland's grip around his neck tightening, his sobs no less loud. The sirens are closer, a police car pulls in at the top of the road as Robin bends and angles himself and tries to look at the woman under the SUV, she's bloodied, wearing black, he can barely see her between the redhead and the blonde, the only thing he can see clearly at all is the forearm of her, the tattooed arm, the red are roses, he sees now.

The redhead is sobbing, reaching under the car and touching the woman's face, Regina's face softly, "Open your eyes, little sis, look at me."

Her eyes do open, dark eyes, open halfway, "the boy," she breathes out, as her sister caresses the side of her face.

The blonde turns then, hair long and hanging limply as she looks and finds Roland sobbing in Robin's arms not steps away, "You saved him," she turns back to the woman under the car, the blonde squeezes the hand she's holding, it does nothing in return, "You saved the little boy, Regina."

**DISCLAIMER: Never ever mine**


	2. Chapter 2

Robin turns his Jeep into hospital parking; he swallows thickly, hands clenched upon his steering wheel. There are two bouquets in the passenger seat of his Jeep, Marian's roses, today is Friday, their date day, and another bouquet, filled with white and yellow daffodils, the daffodils are for the woman, Regina Mills, the police had told Robin her name, they had stood outside Robin's shop after taking statements, after processing the scene, after the wreck of the SUV was towed away, her ambulance hours gone, the redhead silently crying and holding her hand in back as the doors were clapped shut. Robin had still held Roland against his chest as he spoke to the police, though the lad had fallen into a restless sleep while sobbing, Granny urged Robin to go upstairs and put the boy in his bed, but Robin could not bear the thought of releasing the boy, the last good thing he had left in the entire world, and in seconds he had almost lost it. Glass still littered the street, 'your boy didn't look,' a young cop had told Robin, chewing on a wad of gum, sunglasses on, bored almost, 'just ran right out into the street.'

Roland had not looked before stepping off the sidewalk, had dashed madly out into the road, eyes intent on the swings across the street. Regina Mills had been smoking a cigarette with a client, a man with dreads down to his mid back, she'd seen Roland run into the street and ran after him, the dreadlocked man told the police, she'd ran out after him and saved his life.

Robin turns into one of the few open spots left in the lot, far from the front glass doors of the hospital. He kills his engine, the low noise of his radio, _'it's gonna a cold one today, so make sure you bund-'_ gone, silence where the weatherman's voice had been. He sits in silence. Robin takes a deep breath in, lets it out, hands clenching around his keys before he twists in his seat and picks up the daffodil bouquet, his jaw works, he nods his head before stepping onto the asphalt.

Marian had died in this hospital, he does not look up at the behemoth building as he approaches it, can't look, Marian had died in this hospital, sick and weak in a bed, thin and bald, Robin had held her hand in both of his, had told her how much he loved her, how much Roland loved her, and she had looked at him with half open eyes, a tired smile for him, Robin had seen her light and love and _life_ leave her brown eyes. He has had no reason, nor inclination, to ever return here, till now.

He's at the doors before he even realizes, the scent of the hospital, the burning chemicals, invades his nose as the glass swishes open for him, his chest feels too tight all of a sudden, hearing a doctor be paged through the intercom, hearing the patter of so many feet, there is a gurney with a wheel in need of oiling somewhere, he hears, he takes a deep breath in, steadies himself and walks towards the elevators, he knows where they are, take a right, take thirty steps, around the corner.

'A room number for Regina Mills?' he had asked a pleasant sounding woman on the phone two days ago, and had gotten his answer then. It has taken Robin nearly two days to get here.

Room 416, McCarthy wing.

Room 416, McCarthy wing.

"Floor?" a man in scrubs asks Robin as Robin enters the elevator, the man in scrubs standing by the numbered buttons with a stack of manila folders hooked under his arm, not even looking at Robin while he waits for an answer.

Robin chokes it out, squeezing the daffodils, the plastic wrapping around the stems crinkles loudly in the confined space. The man in scrubs turns to look at him, a look of distant, far removed, vague sympathy in his eyes before he looks away.

The elevator rumbles up, an old building with an old elevator, the entire thing jerks and jumbles before halting, it arrives with a ding, but Robin stands there, stands there, daffodils tight in his grasp, the man in scrubs holds the doors open for him, "This is you," he tells Robin.

"Right," Robin agrees, nodding.

* * *

><p>It's a shock when he is suddenly standing before her door. He raises his hand and raps a soft knock against the barrier that has been left open an inch, and her voice comes through the cheap plywood, 'come in'.<p>

Robin swallows, adjusts the flowers in his hands before he pushes it all the way open.

And there she is, the dark haired woman, her eyes half closed, a soft grin on her face, looking at him with dark eyes, large dark eyes. "Hello," she greets easily, eyebrows raised, reclined on the gently angled hospital bed. Sunshine shines in through her east facing windows, slants in through the half open blinds; it's the only light in the room beside the television up near the corner.

She's tiny, is Robin's first thought, looking at her swallowed up by hospital blankets, almost her entire body covered in blankets, all but her right leg, from knee to heel covered in a cast, she's dwarfed by an oversized sweater that hangs off her. Marian had looked tiny too though, she had not been a short woman, but she had looked small, frail, and tired in her hospital bed.

"Good morning," Robin returns her greeting, he's breathless for a reason he can't name, smiling at her, looking at her, though there is a pain, guilt deep inside him as she smiles back at him, a beautiful smile, straight white teeth, pink lips pulled back for him, "My name is Robin Locksley, I-"

"I know who you are," she says with a shake of her head, her wild hair, a bit greasy and a lot curly, unbrushed, surrounding her face, dark, dark hair, short locks of it tumble in front of her eyes. "My neighbor, you're that boy's father," she lets her head fall back against her pillow, her neck is loose, her pupils blown wide, she is obviously heavily medicated, an IV line flows down into her left hand, taped there securely, and guilt stabs at Robin's insides once more.

Robin steps closer, the door shutting behind him with gentle click, the television is playing quietly up by the ceiling, an indecipherable murmuring to the background, "Yes," Robin agrees, he licks his lips before presenting the daffodils to Regina Mills, shoving his offering out into the space between them.

Her eyes travel from his face down his arm, her expression does not change as she looks at the flowers, the same easy half smile on her full lips, "For me?" she questions, disbelieving, her arm curls up, curls inward, her right forearm, the one Robin knows now is painted with roses, is in a cast just like her leg, it plunks against her chest but she makes no noise of discomfort, her fingers curl delicately out of the plaster, resting lightly right above her heart. "You brought me flowers?" she asks, looking up from the yellow and white, looking up at Robin.

Robin forces in a breath.

He could drown in her eyes, wide eyes, brown, lovely.

"Yes, of course," Robin gushes, walking closer still, his eyes traveling around the room, there are no other bouquets, the room is empty of decoration but for one lonely balloon floating in the air above the armchair by her bedside, 'I love you, Mom!' written on it. It makes him suddenly sad; he should have brought a bigger bouquet.

Robin clears his throat, standing at her bedside now, looking down at her, he smiles at her again, can't seem to wipe the expression off his face, grateful and there are butterflies in his gut as he looks down at her, she blinks up at him, blinks those huge dark eyes, "You saved my son's life," Robin tells her, "I can't possibly thank you enough, he is my everything, the one good thing I have left and…you…" Robin stops speaking; her eyes had drifted shut, and stayed shut, her eyelashes long and curling against her cheek.

Is she…asleep?

Her chest, her arm still curled over it, rises up softly, falls back down, even and deep breathes, her mouth open the tiniest bit.

Robin's brow furrows, studying her, he makes a questioning noise, it escapes his throat, but she does not stir. Robin blinks, smile slipping away, just looking at her before he realizes he is doing so and fidgets, grimacing as the plastic around the daffodils in his grip crinkles too loudly, she looks tired, overly medicated and tired with dark circles under her eyes, the side of her face is discolored too, not from exhaustion, but from trauma, the bruise goes from temple to jaw, spreads down into her chin, a nasty blue purple, a stitched gash decorates her cheekbone. He steps around her bed, over to the windows that stream sunlight, he places the yellow and white flowers down on the wide sill.

He should leave, and return when she is more coherent, when she is stronger, but when he turns to go, to do exactly as he should, his gaze lands on her face once more, on her softly parted lips, full lips, lovely, moves up the slope of her nose, back to her long dark lashes. She had saved Roland. Gratefulness swells in Robin's chest, makes his heart beat faster, blood thrumming through his ears, she had pushed Roland out of the way and taken the impact herself. A bouquet of flowers isn't enough, Robin realizes, is paltry compared to the gift of his son's life, she had saved the only light in Robin's life.

Robin hesitates before stepping close to the bed once more, but then it happens, he does it, he steps towards her and is reaching out his hand to hers; her uninjured left arm lies at her side. He grasps her fingers, careful of the IV, her hand is cool and small, her fingers twitch in his grasp, "There is no way I can possibly thank you," Robin tells her, whispers to her, so as not to wake her when she clearly needs the sleep, but he can't leave today without telling her, he squeezes her hand, her small hand.

He does leave after a moment, whispering a promise to return that goes unheard by the sleeping woman. He turns and shuts the blinds, he turns the television off on his way out, his breath falters when she stirs on the bed, licking her lips and turning slightly onto her side, her casted arm falling from her chest, flopping down against the mattress, 'thank you, baby', she murmurs, head tucking against her pillow, clearly still asleep, but her voice, deep and heavy, comfortable in Robin's ears, the endearment, slipping so freely from between her lips, it has Robin blinking.

And then he grins, still grinning as he hops into his Jeep minutes later.

* * *

><p>When he lays down Marian's roses, the deep red roses, the only color in the graveyard, the grass greying and slowly dying as winter lays its claim, her stone a dark grey granite, the corners of his mouth are still lifted. He crouches on the balls of his feet, reaches out and traces out the deep crevices in the stone that spell out her name, <em>Marian Locksley, <em>"Hello," he says, quietly.

There is a pair of women eight headstones down, standing with their hands linked before a grave, and so Robin is quiet, he tells Marian of what almost happened, of the horror of nearly losing Roland. Robin had wanted to come sooner, but Archie's voice stopped him, a memory of the therapist's concerned eyes, his soothing voice, 'it's not healthy, Robin, you have to accept that she is gone,' Archie had said on more than one occasion, and Robin has listened to him...has tried to listen to him.

"I'll try to bring Roland a little later in the week," Robin says, nearly doesn't, the boy does not like coming here, and it can't do Marian good to have him promise things and not deli-

Robin swallows, blinking, leaning back before standing, Archie's voice, soothing and filled with care, 'you have to accept that she is gone,' the red haired man says. Robin takes a deep breath in, looks upwards into the overcast sky, the day had started clear, and now it's very nearly raining.

When a fat drop of rain lands on Robin's forehead, Robin decides that it's time to go, the pair of woman had left nearly fifteen minutes ago, climbing the gentle slope up to the gravel carpath where they parked their Toyota, only an arm's reach from where Robin had parked. He ducks down, bending at the waist, hand on top of the cold stone that bears his wife's name and then he lands his lips there, pressing his lips to the cold stone, cold, his lips feel cold as he draws back. "Good bye, Marian," he says

* * *

><p>John has a friend who has a brother who is in a band. At least that's what Robin thinks is going on. He's been dragged by his old mates, the ones that are still alive, the ones that aren't in pris- the ones that are still around, they've dragged him out for a night off. It's more comforting then Robin had thought it would be, to be with his friends and tell them what's happened since he saw them last. John wears the concerned face of a dear friend, gasping at all the right points, until the tale is done and he clutches his bottle of beer close to his chest, "But the lad is alright?" he asks.<p>

Robin frowns, looks down at the dirty table of the bar, looking fixatedly on a water stain upon the splintering wood, "He's having nightmares," he admits. Roland has been waking in the night, waking and padding to Robin's bed to sleep. The boy has not done that in months, at least half a year, at least he is no longer asking for Momma when he comes and crawls beside Robin to fall asleep, as he did right after she was gone.

"You needn't have come tonight, Robin, we would have understood," Tuck tries to interject, nursing his coke and rum, "you could have stayed with the lad tonight."

John takes a pull from his beer, going on as if he hadn't heart Tuck, John is fairly close to drunkenness at this point, "Aye," he says after swallowing, "I would have nightmares too, a huge hulking hunk of metal flying at you, and the boy is still so small."

Robin shudders, the horror of what almost happened once more invading his mind. Roland could have been gone, gone in seconds. Robin brings his own beer to his lips, Guinness filling his mouth, he glugs down two huge gulps before taking it away. He wipes at his lips with the back of his hand, "I went to see the woman that saved him today, she works in the tattoo place next doo-"

"Not the one with the sleeves?" John asks, gesturing at his own massive arms, eyebrows rising, something Robin can't quite decipher in his tone.

Robin narrows his eyes, tilts his head, "How do you know about her?"

"_Robin_," John says, as if Robin is being very stupid, "I get some whiskey in you and she's all you talk about."

"What?" Robin splutters, leans back in his seat, his beer landing on the wooden table with clunk, he shakes his head, trying to remember foggy memories, he goes out with John at least once a month, a night of music and beer, a night of hanging with the old crowd, "No, I don't-" he shakes his head again, fumbling for words, surely he doesn't-

John holds out a hand, "Hey, hey," he laughs, his eyes pinched strangely, as if he is suddenly concerned, "you've mentioned her is all. The dark haired one?" he leads, "right?"

Robin takes a deep breath in, the condensation from his beer leaving his palm wet, "Yes, she pushed him out of the way, got hit instead. I visited her today, brought her flowers."

The bar goes dark, the band playing in the cramped little corner they call a stage starting to play, a lone drum beat, dum dum DUM DUM, reverberating in this little hole in the wall.

"I owe her more than flowers," Robin calls, leaning towards John's ear, "I owe her the world," yelling over the music that is very suddenly very loud and very much not Robin's cup of tea.

John is thrashing his head back and forth, holding his empty beer bottle aloft, "Damn right you do!" he agrees.

* * *

><p>Robin pays the babysitter well, more than well, he only leaves Roland one night a month, he can afford to pay the girl well. And then he promptly collapses into bed, face first into his pillow, still fully dressed even down to his shoes, groaning, already fighting nausea, this is what he gets for hanging with the old crowd, he's too old for this shit.<p>

It's hours later, it feels like minutes, there is an insistent poking at Robin's side. He groans, turns, tries to wiggle free, but the prodding continues, harder, "Papa?" a four year olds whisper is not actually a whisper at all, Robin opens his eyes to find Roland standing beside his bed.

"My boy," Robin rumbles, his throat raw, a head ache splitting in his skull, but he smiles at Roland, Robin rolls onto his side and beckons the boy up. "What is it, buddy?"

Roland climbs up in his footie pajamas, warm fleece pajamas, he's like an inferno against Robin's side as he snuggles close, though Robin is sure he still smells of liquor, of beer, the boy does not seem to mind. Roland sniffles, "I had a bad dream," he tries to whisper once more.

"It's okay," Robin shushes, hugging his little boy, "come here, go back to sleep."

"Papa," the boy works himself free, just enough to pull back and look Robin in the eye, there are tears, fat tears, rolling down Roland's cheek, "I didn't meant to hurt that lady," Roland cries.

"no, no," Robin tucks him back down beside him, rubbing his warm and soft back, "I know you didn't, nobody thinks that. Is that your bad dream? Seeing her hurt?"

Roland nods into Robin's neck, nuzzling up, seeing warmth and reassurance, both of which Robin gives him, "I dream about her under that big car," Roland whimpers. "I wanna say-" his breath hitches, a sob breaking from his lungs, his whole body shaking, and when his boy cries Robin nearly cries himself, "-orry," Roland gasps, "Miss Mary says we always gotta say sorry for hurting," Roland wipes his snot all over Robin's shirt, "even if it was an accident, Papa, I gotta say sorry."

Robin wants to absolve all of Roland's guilt, but the boy had not looked, the boy is only four though, and Robin knows the guilt is his to bear, for letting Roland leave the shop alone, for not teaching the boy better about the dangers of the road. "We can go see her tomorrow," Robin says, to appease Roland, rubbing at Roland's back, rubbing in circles, "tomorrow, Roland, Saturday, we'll go tomorrow and bring her as many flowers as we can carry, how does that sound?"

Roland nods, still crying.

It will not win him any father of the year awards, but Robin falls back to sleep before Roland does, his splitting headache nearly having him pass out, the boy is still sniffling as Robin closes his eyes.

* * *

><p>"Those a special order?" Granny says, scrutinizing the bouquet Robin is arranging.<p>

"I'm bringing them over to the hospital, Roland and I are visiting her," Robin frowns, pulling a flower with a damaged petal from the group. 'her', like she's the only her in the world, Granny rises an eyebrow Robin does not see.

Granny sits heavily upon the stool behind the counter, Robin can feel her looking at him, feel her eyes from behind her glasses, he turns to her. She smiles at him, an honest smile, nothing wolfish or mean or mocking, a kind-hearted smile, the expression isn't one he's seen on her before, "That's good, Robin," she says, patting the counter softly.

Robin frowns, turning his body to face her, when Roland scampers out the back office, holding two pieces of paper out to Robin. "Papa!" he says, bouncing up and down as if it's at all possible Robin could ignore him, "Papa, which one should I give to her?"

"Ah," Robin takes the drawings as he gets down on one knee, looking into his sons face, "well what are they, my boy?"

Roland laughs, a giggle, and he rolls his eyes, he points at the one in Robin's right hand, a mess of blue squiggles and green squiggles with a yellow spot at the center, "That one is nice day in the park," Roland says in all seriousness, he points at the one in Robin's left hand, an pink and yellow affair, "and that one is a pig wearing a wig!" Roland says, giggling again.

"Ah!" Robin holds the pig wearing a wig up for Granny to see, "I think this will make her smile, do we want to make her smile?"

Roland nods frantically, grabby hands at his picture, to get it back and to keep it safe.

Granny chuckles, runs a hand over Roland's curls roughly, affectionately, the boy had charmed her within minutes of meeting her, no matter how well she tried to hide the fact. "How come you never draw me pictures?" she asks, bopping the boy on the tip of his nose.

Roland's eyes widen, Robin stands and returns to his bouquet, finishing it up after he looks at the clock and finds it already alter then he'd intended it to be, he'd had a hangover this morning, had missed the sunrise, slept right through the dawn, and he still has a dull ache persisting at the back of his skull.

"I can draw you pictures!" Roland cries, "here, you can have this one, and when I get back I can draw you tons more!" he shoves the drawing of the nice day at the park into her waiting hands, dimples deep in his cheeks as she oohs and aahhs over it.

"Alright, my boy," Robin declares, "get your coat and your boots on," Roland scampers to do so, running back into the office.

Robin goes to do the same for himself when Granny stops him with a hand on his shoulder, and then the old woman hugs him, a thoroughly shocking thing that is near over before he even realizes it is happening at all. He pats her back once and she is already pulling away, holding him at the elbows, "That," she nods towards the chrysanthemum bouquet he has been plucking at and perfecting for near an hour, pink and purple and white, "is the prettiest bundle of flowers I've seen leave this shop, Robin."

Robin shrugs, Granny shakes her head again and releases him, pushes him off as Roland comes pelting back, his boots on the wrong feet.

* * *

><p>Roland holds Robin's hand as they cross the street, the little boy's hand held in Robin's right, the huge bouquet held in Robin's left. The little boy's eyes are wide, his head swiveling, Robin had stops them at the curb, "Alright, let's look," Robin says, bouncing Roland's hand, "right," Robin turns is head right, "left," he turns it left, so does Roland, "and right one more tiiiimmmme," Robin nods, "alright, let's go," he takes an exaggerated step off the curb once the road is deemed safe, Roland stepping with him.<p>

* * *

><p>She isn't alone.<p>

Robin hears a voice that is not hers call out a terse, "what?" when he knocks upon the closed door.

His jaw tightens, Roland beside him steps uneasily.

It's an old man, is Robin's first thought, opening the door and walking through the threshold, an old man in a dark three piece suit on a Saturday afternoon, with bushy grey hair and a closely trimmed beard, an old man stands at the foot of her bed, hands gripping the hard plastic tightly.

Robin looks from the stranger to her, though she's barely more than a stranger herself to him. She's still small in the bed, wrapped up in blankets, in a different giant sweater, her face looks even worse than yesterday, more green, yellow spreading under her eye. But her eyes are clear, none of the drugged dazedness of yesterday, her eyes are bright, her mouth a thin line.

"Are you alright?" Robin asks her, approaching her side, the plastic around the chrysanthemums crinkling, the bouquet is unwieldy and he feels suddenly foolish for its size, but Roland had goaded him and goaded him, 'guh, Papa, make it _bigger_!' the boy had told him before scampering off to draw his pictures.

The old man grunts out a displeased sound, he releases the foot of the bed, steps away, gesturing in a precise little hand motion at Robin, a controlled little release of anger, "What," he snarls, "is this your boyfriend?" he spits like acid.

Regina Mills does not look away from the old man, but for one brief flicker of her eyes, down to Roland, suddenly shy Roland trying to hide behind Robin's legs, clutching his picture, her hot gaze returns to the old man in less than a second (and perhaps old man is an overstatement, late sixties perhaps, obviously still healthy, still active, but he is old enough to be her father, old enough to be Robin's father), she does not look at Robin at all, "If he _were_ my boyfriend your reaction would still be completely out of line, but no, he is not." She sits up straighter, struggling to do so, obviously in pain, glaring all the while, "I don't even know why you came here, I didn't ask you to co-"

"_Henry_," the greying man cuts her off, "had to tell me you were in the hospital, _our son_ was the one to tell me you'd been hit by a car?! You have _Zelena_ watching him? Regi-"

Regina closes her eyes, shaking her head, like she's suddenly had an epiphany, "You're not taking him," she says. "And this conversation is done, I think you can find the door."

"You're obviously in no state to car-"

"You." she says, quiet, seething, "aren't. taking. _him_." each word a declaration. Each word made of steel.

Robin and Roland share a look, and it's obvious even to the four year old that this is not a conversation they should be hearing. But Robin, something stops him from walking back out the door; some part of him unwilling to leave her small in her hospital bed with a man that is growing red in the face.

_Our son_ the old man had said, _our son_, the man old enough to be her father, is her ex-partner, ex-husband, what have you. This old man, old enough to be _her_ father, is the father of her child. Robin has no room to judge her, he has to remind himself, clearing his throat and reaching for Roland's hand, the boy should not have to witness this spat between exes. Robin bounces the boy's hand, taking a half a step back; Robin will take Roland down to the cafeteria maybe, and come back in a few minutes.

But the old man slams his hand down upon the plastic at the foot of the bed, the heel of his hand hard against it, a thunderous sound escapes and he hisses out, "God damn it, Regina!"

Roland jumps, eyes wide, gripping tightly at Robin's hand. And she…she flinches back from her ex-husband, left arm rising as if to protect her face from a blow.

"I believe that is enough," Robin is saying before he even decides to do so, the words a growl from him, he doesn't even recognize his own voice.

Her gaze snaps over to him, anger still there, in the tenseness of her jaw, her eyes hardened. Her arm slowly lowers. She's angry at _him_, Robin understands in an instant, no matter how unfair that might be, mad at him for overstepping his bounds. They are nearly still strangers Robin remembers, and Robin should take Roland and return after a few minutes, but that won't be happening, Robin's spine straightens, shoulders pulling back, a towering build he usually tries to lesson, he releases it now.

The old man scoffs, gestures again, a hand flung up, his hand stills when Robin takes a step towards him, half a step, barely a step, the bouquet crinkling, Robin pushes Roland behind him, towards the bed and the woman on it. "She's in hospital," Robin says, quietly, "surely what you have to say can wait."

It's not a suggestion. The old man seems to understand, his head tilts, considering with calculating eyes before he rocks back on his heels, suddenly genial, a different man then seconds ago. A completely different man.

"Right," he says, nodding, smiling under the beard, "of course," he smiles at Robin, amicable. "Regina," he says, looking at her from around Robin and even that boils Robin's blood, "I'll give Henry a call, he's old enough to decide for himself, alright."

"Leo," Regina says, but she's pale under her bruising, anger melting off her, once again frail and small in the bed, she near collapses back onto it. She raises the hand with the IV port, her left hand, up to cover her eyes, "you go ahead and do that then," she sighs.

After he leaves the room is quiet, she lays there, her eyes covered, until Roland makes a little sound, a hesitant little sound that has her looking at him. She smiles for him, a little ragged around the edges, but she smiles. "Hello, sweetheart," she says to him, "I'm so glad to see you," and she does look relieved, honest god relieved, she had dove in front of an SUV to save the boy, and looking at him now her eyes turn wet, "you weren't hurt, were you?"

Roland shakes his head no, though he had a scraped knee and scrapped palms; light bruising that has already faded, from where he'd landed on the concrete well away from the grill of the SUV. Roland squirms, his picture wrinkling in his fidgeting hands; he mumbles something out, something unintelligible.

"I don't think she heard you, Roland," Robin says gently, bending down slightly to say it, finger tips lightly at Roland's back, urging the lad a step closer.

The boy is looking down at his shoes, down at his toes intently, "Miss Regina, I gotta say sorry because you were hurt really bad," he mumbles, "I drew this for you, it's a pig in a wig," he rushes out, blindly offering the drawing at her.

The corners of her eyes crinkle, honest smiling now, her eyes still wet, and it nearly has Robin losing his breath, his lungs stuttering before he looks at his shoes. She has a smile like sunshine. "A pig in a wig?" she echoes, "come here, sweetheart, can you show me? I don't have my glasses."

Roland takes a step forward, another as she continues to beckon him, until he's right at the guardrails and avidly telling her all about the details of his picture, his elbows planted on her nest of blankets.

She's nodding to him, focusing on him with that megawatt smile, Robin bites his lip, when he looks towards the windows he sees that the daffodils he brought for her yesterday sit in a vase, he round s the bed and places the chrysanthemums down on the sill.

**DISCLAIMER: Never ever mine**


	3. Chapter 3

Saturday.

Roland is perilously close to outgrowing his racecar bed, if he does not bend his knees while lying upon the mattress his feet knock against the hard plastic of the bumper. He loves the bed though. And Robin, Robin remembers the day they bought this bed for him, he and Marian, Marian pushing Roland in a stroller ahead of her, 'He likes it,' Marian had said, laughing and lovely as she'd unclipped the two year old and let him climb all over the display.

Roland is four now, outgrowing his racecar bed, and Marian…she is gone.

"Ready for bed?" Robin asks, flipping the light switch up and down as he comes in from the hall, up and down, bathing the room in light, blinking it into darkness, light, dark, light, dark, until the boy let's out an exasperated 'Papa!'

Robin chuckles and leaves the light switch alone, he smiles at Roland as the little fleece covered boy searches through a pile of books in the corner, Robin pads barefoot into the blue painted room, the boy in his pajamas, Robin too, in his flannel pants and an old t-shirt, though he is hours still away from bed himself, he'll sit and read, watch television, alone, he'll do these things alone and then go to bed alone in a few hours. "You brushed your teeth?" Robin asks.

"Yes, Papa," Roland answers, one book held in his tiny hands, he is scrutinizing the cover, it holds his attention for a moment before it's placed on top of the others. A mountain of books, nearly half as tall as the seated child, sways dangerously with the new addition.

Robin sits on the bed, his feet planted on the ground, hands on his knees as he chuckles at his son, "We can do two stories tonight if you can't decide on one," as if he offers something special or extraordinary, but the truth is the boy often cajoles a second story, sometimes even a third, from Robin with nothing more than pleading puppy eyes.

Roland smiles, does not look up, but a quiver of excitement rocks through his tiny body, he grabs two brightly colored books and pelts to the bed, unmindful of the stack that topples behind him, all the vibrant books crashing upon the thick cream carpet that has more than one juice stain adorning its surface. Roland flies towards the bed, flopping down and bouncing on his belly before Robin gathers him up and starts to tickle that very same belly.

"Papa, no," Roland squirms, smiling, screeching loudly and flailing the books in his hands, "it's bedtime!" the four year old reminds Robin, trying to sound stern.

Robin drops Roland down with an exaggerated sigh, as if the boy has ruined his fun, and Roland giggles, the giggling boy up on his knees in an instant, holding his books out to his father, "ah," Robin grins, takes the books, "are you certain?" Roland tucks himself into Robin's side, nodding energetically as he grabs at his blanket and wraps it around his shoulders and partly over Robin's knees.

Robin makes a big show of getting comfortable, until another groan of 'Papa!' is heard through the room.

"Alright," Robin kisses the top of Roland's head, appeasing the child, "Ready?" Robin asks, finally done teasing the boy, Robin rubs circles into Roland's back, soothing circles that already have the boy slumping towards sleep, slumping from Robin's side down to his leg, his head of curls laid down on Robin's thigh.

"Ready," Roland says, a sharp nod of his chin near Robin's knee.

So Robin reads to him, angles the book so Roland can see all the pictures, though his eyes droop closed before Robin is even five pages in.

Robin finishes the first book…

And then the second, his voice soothing and easy and gentle, lulling the little boy to sleep, as he has done all the boy's life, bedtime had always been Robin and Roland time, warm and comfy with their stories, Marian used to stand at the door and smile, a sweet smile that Robin aches to remember, he looks up towards the hall, as if to catch sight of her. But she is gone.

"-ey both lived happily ever after," Robin finishes the storybook quietly, closing it softly; Roland is a heavy weight against him. He's heavy, but not completely asleep.

"Papa," Roland mumbles, "can we visit Miss Regina again tomorrow?"

Robin eases out from under Roland, adjusting the boy until he's splayed back on his bed, his head on his pillow, he's draped over the bed, his feet nearly overhang from the bumper. He needs a new bed. Robin pets hair off of Roland's face easily, "We just saw her today," Robin whispers as he reaches over and turns on Roland's nightlight, a frog that glows green.

Roland blinks his eyes open, dark eyes, the green light plays in them before he blinks, once, twice, "I didn't like leaving her there," the boy says, slurring his words.

Robin could tell that for himself, the boy had thrown something that very closely resembled a tantrum when it was time to go, they had spent an hour there, with Regina Mills in her hospital room, the boy and her talking and talking, her hanging off each word from the child's mouth like it was the most important and thrilling conversation she'd ever had the privilege to partake in. Robin had been content to watch them both, the boy and the woman, offering input when prompted, but mostly he stood by his flowers and smiled and watched. He'd been shocked by how much time had passed him by when he finally looked up at the mounted clock on the wall, shocked by how easy it was to let the world slip away.

"Why, Roland?" Robin's brow scrunches, he frowns and lowers one knee to the carpet, kneeling instead of crouching, he lands a hand on top of Roland's on top of the boy's Batman sheets.

Roland's bottom lip is drawn into his mouth, chewed on before he shrugs his narrow shoulders, "We left Mama there," Roland whispers in response, tiny face screwing up, his eyes blink open again. There is so much pain in his dark eyes.

Robin can only swallow, his face blanching, terrible heartache erupting in his chest, in his heart, he looks down at Roland's hand, he moves it up to his lips, kisses the tiny tired fingers, "You remember that, Roland?" he says against his boy's soft knuckles. Robin had hoped he had not, that the memories of the hospital, of Mama sick and weak, dying, had hoped those memories had faded, but it's far more likely those are the only memories Roland will have of her.

"It smelled funny there," Roland scrunches his nose, squirms on the bed.

"Roland," Robin is near tears, he swallows them down, "Mama went to be with the angels, up in heaven. We didn't leave her there, my boy, she went to heaven."

But Roland is asleep, his mouth open, a light snore coming from him, his hand is limp in Robin's hold. Robin looks at his son for long minutes, at his perfect little face, his perfect little hands, until he gathers the strength to stand, flicking the light switch as he passes, the only light in the boy's room coming from the glowing green frog.

* * *

><p>Sunday.<p>

Robin feels foolish, because once again he carries flowers with him, as if he cannot possibly go to her without some offering, without a showing of his gratitude, a bouquet of blue orchids. He holds Roland's hand tightly all the way from the Jeep to the hospital doors, noticing now how the little boy looks up at the huge building with large wet eyes, with a jutting lip that is an attempt at the bravery he has seen in his cartoon heroes.

"Regina isn't like how Mama was," Robin tries to explain to Roland in the elevator, they are alone in the old jumbling thing, he kneels down next to Roland, passes the bouquet to the boy. "Mama was sick, Roland. She was sick, but Regina is only hurt, she's going to get all better."

"She gets to go home?" Roland asks, shuffling his feet, sniffling at the orchids.

"Yes," Robin smiles, it covers his sadness, he hopes it does. Robin grips the boy by his shoulders, a reassuring grip, "she'll go home."

Robin tries to get the boy to look him in the eye, but it takes Robin's fingers under his chin to lift the boy's eyes, "Roland, she'll go home, I _promise_."

The elevator dings, the doors sweep open, it's her floor, but Robin waits for Roland to nod his little head, an acknowledgement of Robin's promise, before he stands and ushers them both out into the overly bright hall. Roland needs both hands to hold the bouquet that is nearly as big as he is, so Robin keeps a hand on the little boy's shoulder all the way to her door.

A nurse nods to them, smiling slightly at the small child with the huge bouquet. Robin nods in return as they pass each other. It's the acknowledgement of the nurse that starts it, Déjà vu races through him, how familiar all the corridors of this hospital are, how the sounds and the smells and the sound of far off motion can carry down the bleached and worn floors, it all washes over him, his heart starts thumping, he takes a deep breath in, lets it out.

Regina is not like how Marian was, Regina gets to go home.

It's only Roland stopping, pulling his shoulder from Robin's grasp, that breaks Robin from his thoughts. He stutters to a stop and turns to find her door.

Robin raises his hand to knock.

"Yes?" her voice comes to him, her rich voice, and his cheeks color suddenly, quick like lightening, as he imagines the way her mouth forms her words, how it would form his name. Her mouth, he is thinking of her mouth, Robin's cheeks only color more, as he reaches for the handle and eases the door open, her lovely mouth.

But his embarrassment disappears at her smile, or more accurately, he forgets about it, forgets to breath as well, when he pushes open the door and Roland rushes in, her whole face brightens, brightens the room that is bright with morning sun, her whole face transformed, as the little boy rushes to her side. Washed in golden light, she is a vision.

"Good morning, sweetheart!" she says, obviously surprised, twisting to wrap Roland in a one armed hug as he skids to a stop at the guardrails, "You're here to see me?" she questions, and the boy nods and chatters, holding the bouquet up, nearly shoving the flowers into her face, "so soon?" she sends that question over Roland's curls, she looks as though she has just woken, pillow depressions still marking her face, her shoulder length hair a wild halo of dark curls.

Robin takes in a breath, a rushed thing, he holds up his hands, sheepish, but her smile does not slip, she shakes her head with a laugh, her eyes twinkling, creases forming at the corners of her eyes for how hard she is smiling, Robin watches in wonderment. He remembers to breathe again after a moment, stepping forward to pluck the flowers from Roland's overzealous hands.

"I apologize for not calling-" Robin starts, he could have called her room number and asked, he should have, he's afraid he has woken her up.

"It might have been prudent," she admits, head tilted, eyes following Robin as he rounds the bed to put the orchids by all the other flowers he has given her.

Robin places them on the sill, there is barely enough room for them, "I'm so sorry, you're expecting other company, aren't you?" Robin realizes, biting his lip as he turns to look at her again, she's petting Roland's curls absent mindedly, she nods at Robin's question.

"My sister is bringing my son soon," she looks over to the wall clock, to the slow crawl of the minute hand clicking softly around.

"We can leave, if you'd prefer," Robin assures, just as Roland chirps an enthusiastic 'Henry is coming?!'

Roland turns to Robin, eyes wide, "Please, I wanna meet Henry!" he'd heard quite a lot about her son yesterday.

She makes a shushing sound, still petting Roland's untamable hair, "It's alright, keep me company till they get here?" as if she is asking the boy, but she turns slightly, eyes on Robin.

"Yes, of course," Robin says, "but we won't monopolize her, right Roland?" Robin walks back to his boy, bends down and hugs the little boy's little waist, it brings him closer to her, closer to her smiling face and dark hair, he sees a scar decorating her lip, "We'll meet her boy and then we're off," he says even as a selfish thought runs past his brain, that he would very much like her all to himself, he releases his son and backs off, sits down in the arm chair and he watches Roland at her side, chatting to her and getting smiles in return and suddenly there in Robin's brain is the idea that he would very much like her to himself.

It seems like minutes, it has been forty-five, before her son arrives.

"Henry," she greets, breathing out her child's name like she never thought she'd see him again when the lad opens the door, Robin remembers the boy's father in this very room just yesterday, and her son is older then Robin had thought he would be.

"Hey, Mom," the boy says, tone questioning, eyeing Robin in the armchair, and Roland snuggled on the bed next to her.

Henry looks to be pushing teenagerhood. Robin glances from the boy to the woman in the bed, who looks about Robin's own age, and Robin had thought he and Marian having Roland at thirty had been far too young, she must have been not much more than a child herself when she had her son. Had her son with a man old enough to be her father. A man who she flinches from.

"Honey, come here," she says, beckoning her son, who leaves the door open behind him, "I want you to meet Roland, he's the little boy that-"

"That you saved?" Henry asks, his wariness finally relenting, he smiles down at Roland, at his mother, and he may not look like his mother, he did not get his skin or hair or eyes from her, but that smile, the way it curves in the corners, that smile is his mother's smile.

"She did saved me!" Roland says, pushing up to sit, using her ribs as leverage, his weight, his little hands on her person, have her gasping and then hissing out a sharp breath.

"Roland," Robin scolds, shooting up and forward from the chair, swerving around Henry to pluck Roland away from her, Robin knew it was a bad idea to have him up there, but the boy had climbed up and she had smiled. Roland pouts as Robin grips him under the armpits and lifts him, lifting him from her side, she's still wincing, trying to smile through the expression of pain, "She's hurt all over," Robin reminds his little boy, whispering it as he places the boy gently on his feet.

"Are you okay, Mom?" Henry questions, moving right up against the guardrails, and a second later Roland too is at the plastic, peeking over it with guilty eyes.

"I'm fine," she says, her voice strangled, obviously not fine, Henry is old enough to realize that, and Roland is looking very dubious about the statement as well. She's holding her side with her left hand, curving her fingers over her ribs, but she rolls her eyes up at them, "Boys," she says, and it's when her eyes sweep over Robin as well as the children that he realizes he's been rolled up in the term too, "I'm fine."

Her sister walks in through the open door then, a metal buckle on her purse smacking against the doorframe as she enters, Robin turns to look at her, "Regina?" she questions immediately, plopping the huge purse on the chair Robin had been sitting in, she rounds the bed, no eyes for Robin, for Roland, the redheads entire focus on her sisters hand, the hand that is still trembling and held against ribs. "Do you need a nurse? What happened?" the redhead hovers, she has an accent, she's not quite touching, but very near.

"No, I'm _fine_," Regina repeats again, annoyed now, it's there in her voice.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Regina," Roland warbles, close to tears, trying to sniffle them back, his bottom lip stuck out, his breath hiccups.

"No, sweetheart," she tries to sit up, but can't do it, "It's alright."

"What did he do?" the redhead snaps, her tone all wrong, accusing and mean, it's when her bright blue eyes finally regard Roland, and he backs up against Robin's legs, that Robin picks up his little boy and holds him against his side.

"Zelena," Regina chastises sharply, her hand leaving her ribs, going to her sisters bare wrist, wrapping her grip around the pale skin marked by a dark jagged line, a skyline of a city decorating her skin. "I'm _fine_," she stresses, and blue eyes meet brown, an entire conversation simmering in the air between their locked gazes, more meaning then Robin is privy to. Robin's ire, hot and bubbling in his veins as Roland tucks his head against Robin's neck, does not dim.

"I think that's our cue to leave, my boy," Robin says, and if his voice is hard, if it is pissed off, he does not care.

Not until Regina calls out after him, "Robin!" his name from her, and how he wishes he could have seen it form on her lips, he turns to look at her, with her son on one side, and her sister still in her grip on the other. "Can I say goodbye?" she questions, nodding towards Roland. She sounds almost pleading.

Roland nods against Robin's neck, mumbling such a sentiment himself. And very suddenly Robin feels a complete asshole. He walks Roland back to her bedside, Regina Mills kisses Roland's cheek, the boy still held against Robin, his spine bending down towards her, she wipes his tears away and gets him to giggle with whispered words.

And then Robin and his boy leave.

* * *

><p>Monday.<p>

"Robin," Granny calls from the front, something is off about her voice.

Robin scratches at his eyes, squeezing the bridge of his nose, before he closes the screen of his laptop. His billing and accounts can wait, he decides.

"Yes, Granny?" he says as he stands, as he squeezes between the edge of his desk and the floral wall paper.

Robin stops in his tracks as he exits the small hall, as he stands in the doorway leading into the shop.

"Robin Locksley," the old man says, in a dark blue suit and tie, smiling at Robin and Robin can only stare dumbly, tension grows in the air, "I was hoping you could help me."

The old man, Henry's father, the man old enough to be Regina Mills's father, standing in Robin's shop like he has any right to be here, as if he had not raised his hand and the woman who'd saved Roland had not flinched from the gesture, this man is not welcome here. Robin looks about the shop, it's empty but this old man, "You'll get no help from me," Robin says, and Granny turns to look at him, look at him as his voice becomes a growl.

Leo smiles, unperturbed by Robin's expression, which is murderous at this point, the old man putters around, one finger lifting and gently stroking the long petal of a white flower, "I'll need a bouquet," he says.

"We're fresh out today," Robin seethes, landing fisted hands upon his counter top, Granny next to him bounces her weight from foot to foot, her frown deepening.

"Is that so?" Leo chuckles slightly, stilling in the center of the shop, looking at all the flowers, at the shop full of flowers. "I'm going to visit my wife; I want to bring her something pretty."

Robin swallows at the word _wife_, "She didn't seem to appreciate your company the last time."

Leo shrugs, an arrogant rise of his shoulders, everything about him is arrogant, he's money, Robin can see that by the fine cut of his suit, by the way he treats the others in this world. "She gets confused sometimes," Leo says.

Robin has no use for this, no need, it's his shop, _his_, and he need not suffer this man, he wants to throttle him, wants to cut him, his hands clench further, and Regina flinching plays on a loop in his head, "Leave the premises, before I call the police," Robin chokes out, closing his eyes.

That seems to surprise the old man, Granny too if the small noise she makes is anything to go by, Leo's gaze turns questioning, as if he is reevaluating everything, before he says, "Thank you for the help," to Granny and then does exactly as Robin told him to do, walking out the glass door, the bells jangling above his head as he turns in the doorway, hand on the frame, looking back at Robin before he smiles and leaves, a gust of cold air coming in before the door shuts.

"What the hell was that all about?" Granny turns to Robin, thumping him on the shoulder when he does not answer her right away.

His blood is still thrumming through his ears.

"Who was that? Robin? And what the hell was that whole intimidation dance he was doing?"

"That's her husband," Robin finally answers; the word husband hissed out like it's a dirty word.

"Whose husband? What are you talking about-"

"_Her_ husband," Robin says again, spinning from the counter and stalking back into the office, there is no door to slam, nothing to do but squeeze back to his chair and throw himself down.

Granny is peering at him when he finally opens his eyes a few minutes later; she's standing with her arms crossed, hip cocked and a frown deeply etched at her brow. "You done throwing a huff?" she says, totally unimpressed.

Robin nods sullenly, poking at the papers on his desk.

"Now by 'her'," Granny goes on, taking a further step into the office, "I'm assuming you're meaning Miss Mills from next door," she waits for Robin to nod.

"Alright," she leans down on the desk top, looking at him with serious eyes, "you want that girl, you go get that girl, and stop all this nonsense. There's no way a woman that young and pretty is married to a giant prick like that, not for long anyway, so relax before you have a stroke."

Robin splutters, denials on his tongue, he doesn't 'want the girl', but on the back of that is remembering her lovely face, her mouth, her warmth with Roland, the way her hair curled around her face, dark hair and dark eyes…Robin gulps and nearly falls from his chair as realization washes over him.

Dread crawls its way through him.

* * *

><p>Tuesday.<p>

Archie's office is in a drafty old brick building on the outskirts of the city, an area ripe with crime, the rent is low; Archie has shared with Robin, _because_ the area is ripe with crime Robin can only assume, because it's a cesspool for the needy and the depraved alike. It's beginning to change, Archie has also said, change for the better with the influx of youths that think it cool to live in the abandoned buildings, among the abandoned squalor of an industrial age well past, youths who fancy themselves artists and writers, kids who must look at these old brick buildings and pothole ridden streets and see something far different than what Robin sees.

The train screeches, Robin jerks sideways in his seat, his back to the windows that show the station they are fast approaching, he lurches in his seat towards the front of the train as it tries to slow, as it lurches and falters to a stop, '_st-tio- Fay-tte' _a voice, scratchy and unintelligible comes from the speakers over the doors, '-_ayette –ation'_ it repeats, and above the doors, in lurid glowing green it reads Fayette Station in scrolling type on the display, end of the line.

Robin sighs and stands before the train has come to full stop, he's grabbing at handholds as he makes his way to the doors, impatient as he waits for them to slide open with a hiss. The train gives one last great splutter and then it stills, held securely in the dirty concrete cradle of Fayette station, illuminated by the buzzing bulbs that flicker in the cavernous space that is covered in decades of dirt. Robin is one of only three that steps off the train, up and down the platform, only three step off, and only one climbs on for the return trip to the center of the city.

Robin bundles up, zips the zip of his jacket, begins walking to the steep stairs, 'Spare some change?' a man asks, a man sitting against the wall, in rags, layers of rags, a grey tabby cat purring on his lap.

'Here, mate,' Robin mutters, not coming to a complete stop as he digs out a bill from his pocket, slipping it into the cup the man had been holding out.

'oh, no, man,' the man calls after Robin's back, 'dude, that's a twenty, here you ca-'

Robin is already past him, waving him off, he springs up the steps, flinging up his hood against the drizzle falling through the sun. When he is above ground he takes a huge breath, eyes closing, breathing in the stink of iron in the air, the stink of rusted machinery, breathing in the stench of oil drum fires.

With his eyes still closed he takes two steps, he knows the way. He has come to Archie's office every other week, at two o'clock in the afternoon every other Tuesday, for five years, at first a necessity of his release, now a necessity to his life. He walks the cracked sidewalk with his head down, his hands in his pockets.

Archie's practice is on the top floor of a warehouse converted into office space, an old cage elevator the only way up or down but for a very dodgy looking fire escape barely held to the battered outside wall. It is only a twelve minute walk from the train.

He makes it in ten, stomping, his hands deep in his pockets, his head tilted down.

* * *

><p>It's always cold here, in the waiting room; the huge windows up near the ceiling are grimy, rain pattering against dirt and dust that have never been cleaned, the windows constantly sucking out all the heat. Robin pops the collar of his coat, tucks his ears down into it as he licks his lips, adjusts himself in the chair, it groans under his weight and at the sound Robin tries not to cringe. He is alone in the room, alone with shabby chairs, with a radio that softly croons out oldies, with an electric heater that whines in the corner but does not actually seam to offer warmth; Archie had welcomed him with a smile, and promptly asked him to please just wait a moment, easing Robin sitting before retreating back to his main office.<p>

Robin reaches forward and snags a magazine from the low table, his choice a National Geographic, though he is tempted by the gossip rag that claims Camilla to be a vampire. He looks at the magazine, at the pictures, beautiful pictures, but cannot string the written words together, his thoughts too jumbled to arrange the words into any meaning.

The office door opens with a creak ten minutes later, the noise worthy of any haunted house, and Archie's soothing voice mixes with the jingling of Pongo's collar and tags, "I'm very proud of you," Archie is saying quietly. The dog bounces out the office before anyone else, the Dalmatian dancing and trotting over to Robin. Robin pats at Pongo's flank, flops the magazine he'd been pretending to read down upon the table, "There's a good dog," Robin growls out, smooshing the dogs face, scrunching at his ears.

Robin looks up as he pushes at Pongo's chest, a playful shove that throws the dog back a step, only to have Pongo happily rushing back with stinky licks aimed for Robin's face. Robin laughs and pushes the dog once more before standing.

Archie steps out of the office with his hand on a woman's shoulder, a woman who has clearly been crying, but she gives a soft smile and nods before striding to the door. She only gives Robin the barest of regard, enough to tip her head and then she is gone, he would expect nothing else from her.

"Good afternoon, Robin," Archie greets, holding out a hand to shake, smiling, his gaze slipping from the retreating woman's back over to Robin's face. "I'm terribly sorry about that, but-"

"No need," Robin reassures, shaking the proffered hand, clapping a hand against Archie's shoulder.

Archie squints from behind his glasses, his mouth open slightly, "Here, come on in," he urges Robin, care in his voice, "has something happened?"

Robin squeezes Archie's shoulder once, a soft squeeze before he releases him, before he walks past him into the office that is far warmer than the waiting room, a radiator belting out heat by the desk that is overrun with loose papers that flutter from under their paperweights and a monstrous amount of thickly bound books.

"I nearly lost him," Robin says, taking off his coat and hanging it on a hook by the door, the words tumble out of his mouth, it seems he has said it to so many, to Marian in the graveyard, to John in the pub, and to Regina, Regina in the hospital, he had told them all how he'd nearly lost Roland, but Robin thinks, very much thinks, that Archie is the only one that will truly, truly understand what losing Roland would mean.

Archie sits in his wingback, head tilted, concern in his eyes, care in his hands when he motions Robin to sit, "You're speaking of Roland? Robin, what happened?"

And he tells it all. Again.

"I could not live without him," he finishes it with. And looks up at Archie… and Archie understands.

Archie looks down for a second, pen bobbing over and over the pad of paper he's got on his knee, when he finally looks up, he shakes his head. "Roland can't be your only tether, Robin," he says quietly.

He has said this before.

"I know," Robin agrees, his hands clasped together, he's staring at the plain gold band on the ring finger of his left hand, a thick band that he hasn't taken off since the day Marian slipped it on his finger. She'd been swollen with pregnancy, her ankles swollen, her back in perpetual agony, but she had smiled and cried with happiness as they stood in the courthouse, her in a simple white sundress that barely fit, she had been so beautiful, sunshine on her.

Unbidden, and upsetting once he realizes where his thoughts ran, Robin thinks of Regina Mills and her smile in the bright early sun shining through her hospital room windows, Roland snuggled into her side as she held the remote up and flipped through channel after channel, '-orks wonders! Only two paymen-', 'Afghanistan toda-', before the obvious sounds of childrens' programming came from the scratchy speakers and Roland's delighted cry of 'It's Spongebob!' rang through the room.

He flinches. As he did yesterday. As he has done each time his thoughts have wondered to her. It happens more often than he'd ever realized, thinking of her, as he'd made macncheese for Roland, as he'd watched television, as he stood at he and Marian's windows this morning, sipping his coffee, his thoughts had turned to the woman with the sleeves, the dark haired woman. He has flinched each time.

"What are you thinking of?" Archie's voice is quiet, the sound his pen makes upon striking the pad of paper has ceased, his question is not loud, but it is sharp, the flinch obviously worrying him.

Robin takes a deep breath in, his jaw working, his hands clenching against each other, his thick gold band burning at his eyes, "I'm thinking of the woman that saved Roland," Robin admits.

"Ah," Archie says, a soft reply, "your neighbor?" he asks.

Robin nods, does not look up at the other man, "Yes, she runs the-"

"You've spoken of her before, Robin," Archie interrupts him, something he has rarely done in all the years Robin has been his patient.

Robin is quiet, thinking hard, his breathing slow and even, he's making his breathing slow and even, trying to think, "Have I?"

Archie is quiet for a long time, until Robin looks up at him, "Since the tattoo parlor opened eight months ago," Archie tilts his head, empathy in every line of his face, "You're very interested in her," Archie says, just as the radiator churns out a terrible racket and rattles against the wall.

Robin flinches back again, flinches from Archie's soft observation.

"Robin, it's perfectly natural," Archie leans forward in his seat, his pad of paper and his pen sliding down to the cushion of his chair, "and perfectly healthy to start to look at other peop-"

"Marian is my wife!" Robin thunders, not a yell, not quite.

The declaration hangs in the air between them, a solid and awkward thing. Pongo whines from his bed.

Archie says it slowly, he moves his hands slowly, "Marian is dead, Robin."

"I know!" Robin says, quieter now, threading his hands through his hair, pulling on it. He takes a huge breath in, "I know that," he repeats, forcibly calm.

"She is dead, and it's perfectly healthy to be interested in others."

Robin shakes his head, will not voice it but it's clear on his face, it must be, that he thinks it would be anything but healthy, it is a betrayal.

* * *

><p><strong>DISCLAIMER: Never Mine<strong>


End file.
